


after one long season of waiting

by niuniujiaojiao



Series: the house of a friend i know [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Annabelle Cane, Pre-Episode: e180 Moving On (The Magnus Archives), Some angst, and we reject the idea that only some avatars' feelings matter, here in this house we respect annabelle cane as a human being, let annabelle have nice things 2k20, no beta we die like volunteers for an unethical arachnophobia experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26834413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niuniujiaojiao/pseuds/niuniujiaojiao
Summary: I took a backpack and filled it with as much food as I could carry (which was barely enough for a decent lunch), my favorite blanket, and the only book I could say belonged to only me. - MAG147Annabelle is not used to having nice things.or, Annabelle heads to Upton House, muses a little, and gets some well-deserved rest
Relationships: (pre-friendship), Annabelle Cane & Mikaele Salesa
Series: the house of a friend i know [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957378
Comments: 20
Kudos: 46





	after one long season of waiting

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for general Web fuckery (lack of free will, brief mention of disordered eating), descriptions of past hypothetical self-harm, brief body horror, and mentions of racism (implied). although this fic doesn't touch heavily on Annabelle's childhood or college trauma, it tries to be aware of it.
> 
> Annabelle is a Black woman, and I am not. Moreover, in this fic and (arguably) in canon, she has experiences with poverty that I don't have. I've done research, but there’s always room for improvement. Comment or message me on Tumblr at [pronouncingitwang](https://pronouncingitwang.tumblr.com) with any suggestions or criticism.
> 
> Annabelle's attitude towards the Web somewhat inspired by [this post](https://ofdreamsanddoodles.tumblr.com/post/623913629540040704/tbh-what-i-want-to-know-is-like-did-being-an). Fic and series title from "Absolute Lithops Effect" by The Mountain Goats, but specifically [the Carrie Elkin cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-4PO5YCBa8)

Annabelle is not used to having nice things.

The Mother keeps her alive, but she is not, by any means, indulgent. Annabelle eats what she is given to survive and sleeps when a flat surface is provided. It’s comforting, knowing that as long as she remains useful, the worries of the rest of the world—finances, friendships, professional failures—will never need to cross her mind. Most of the time, at least. Other times, when she finds herself, say, shaving her head over a garbage bin every few months because the Mother would rather she not direct her energy towards maintaining it, she reconsiders her stance.

Upton House is pretty much the dictionary definition of “nice things.” Annabelle should probably feel lucky that one of the neutral zones of the apocalypse happens to be The World’s Poshest House connected to The World’s Poshest Gardens, but she can’t shake off her sense of unease right now. Stepping onto the grounds, Annabelle feels the same way she did when she first spied the clean lines and shining glass of the Surrey campus. Like there was an elaborate joke playing out in the universe around her, and the punchline was _you don’t belong here_.

When Annabelle was a child, she was, like most children, afraid. The things she feared shifted day-to-day depending on the latest story her brother Chris had told her and the last thing she’d watched on television. Lying awake at night, hearing the snores of her sisters beside her, she would become _convinced_ that a creak of the floor or a thud outside the door was something trying to get her. Eventually, she’d found that the best way to quell her fear was to flip the script.

“You better run,” she would whisper to the air, “You’re not the ghost. _I’m_ the ghost. I’m haunting _you_.” And again, “You’re not the ghost. _I’m_ the ghost,” and again, until the steely determination in her voice settled deep and solid in her belly.

Of course, this meant that, after she’d encountered that giant spider in the old chip shop, she’d run home in tears, whispering through sobs, “You’re not a scary spider. _I’m_ a scary spider,” which… well. Annabelle can appreciate foreshadowing.

As she walks toward the door of the house, Annabelle employs a similar fear-banishing method. “You don’t live here,” she whispers, stepping forward. Her boot makes a mark in the immaculate grass, and she grinds her heel down harder. “ _I_ live here.”

Soon, Annabelle’s close enough to the house to see the texture of the brick, to begin to count the separate segments of the window shutters. At the first glimmer of a light inside, she bites back an incredulous laugh. This place is _real_. And, she reminds herself, she lives here.

What would Annabelle’s childhood be like, if she’d grown up in a place like this? If her family could sit around the dinner table without accidentally kicking one another in the shins? If they didn’t need to fight over the bathroom? If, after fights, they could go to their own, separate rooms to calm down and formulate apologies? If, as they wiped away their tears and took deep breaths the way her mother taught them— _come on, Annabelle, in_ , _out_ , _in_ , _out_ … _that’s it, baby_ —they could see trees and flower beds outside their windows?

 _You don’t live here._ I _live here._

Annabelle feels the Mother’s influence loosening the closer she gets. Her steps become less mechanical. She sways more when she walks, and her limbs feel heavy, like whatever was holding them up had stopped trying so hard. Perhaps, though, some of her feet-dragging comes from genuine reluctance. Annabelle has read the statements. If Mikaele Salesa is as good of a man as his crew suggests, she doesn’t want to kill him for the right to stay.

 _You don’t live here._ I _live here._

The exhaustion and hunger hit Annabelle as soon as she reaches the house's doorstep. She staggers forward, grabbing for the door. She hadn’t expected the handle to turn so easily. Then, she sees Mikaele standing in the doorway, waiting. Unlocked deliberately, then. He probably has a good view of the grounds from the house’s many, many windows.

Mikaele doesn’t scream, or even pull a face at Annabelle’s entrance. She watches him calmly take in the caved-in side of her skull, count her eight eyes, and draw his conclusions. All without saying a word. Maybe he knows not to provoke the Web. Maybe he’s seen too many oddities in his life for Annabelle to unnerve him. Either way, it’s not a promising sign.

 _You don’t live here._ I _live here._

Back when her new eyes were just beginning to grow in, Annabelle had been so afraid. She’d thought about sewing them shut, or stabbing them until they became sunken pits in her forehead, but clearly, they're still there right now, unharmed. _You’re not going to do it, a voice_ —hers? the Mother’s?—had taunted every time she’d reached for her sewing needle. _You’re already imagining how much it could hurt._ The voice was right, of course. It was silly of her to pretend the decision hadn’t already been made.

Mikaele is not, it seems, afraid. Unfortunate. There goes the intimidate-him-into-giving-up-the-camera strategy. But he also isn’t holding a weapon. He’d been the one to unlock the door. He practically _reeks_ of loneliness. And maybe part of why he hadn’t flinched when he saw her was because he, too, knows how alienating it is for strangers, upon meeting you, to stumble backwards and say, “you’re not what I expected.”

 _You don’t live here_. I _live here_.

 _You don’t live here_. I _live here_.

 _You_ do _live here, but maybe, also…_

“I live here,” Annabelle says.

“Okay,” Mikaele says. Just like that.

Relief and shock bubble up inside Annabelle. She wants to jump up and down and cheer, but Mikaele is watching her reaction closely. Instead, she orders her legs to stay still and her face to stay neutral. Annabelle allows herself a little movement—just enough to nod curtly—then steps through the doorway. She will process the gilt-edge chairs and the polished floors later; right now, she's too focused on staying lucid. It takes effort, but she manages to stay upright all the way up the stairs. At the sight of the first empty bedroom, she groans, stumbles in, and collapses face-first onto a satin bedspread.

When Annabelle wakes, she finds a pile of provisions outside her door. Ten granola bars, still packaged, and several water bottles with unbroken seals, as if to say, “look, I didn’t poison this.” Whether the gesture was born of caution or general goodwill or both, Annabelle’s not sure. She hasn't studied Mikaele enough to predict his actions with any accuracy. Perhaps in time, she will have.

Annabelle checks again for any tampering, then scarfs the food down as quickly as she can. She gives herself hiccups in the process, but the water helps with that. Bits of oat scatter across the ground as she chews, but she doesn’t mind. The spiders will take care of the crumbs.

“Maybe I should start growing my hair out again,” she murmurs to the nightstand. Then, she lies down, and falls back asleep in a room she can definitively call her own.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm hoping to have one more work in this series, but i'm not quite sure when it'll be written
> 
> have a good day <3


End file.
